My definition of adulthood has evolved and expanded with each life stage, and just when I think I’m about as grown up as a grown up can be, I go and do something so mature it would make the Lost Boys cringe.

In high school, I thought I’d feel like a grown-up once I had a serious boyfriend. In college, I thought I’d feel like a grown-up once I had a full-time reporting gig. In my early days as a New Yorker, I thought I’d feel like a grown-up once I stopped stealing Splendas from the corner deli to add to my kitchen coffer. (Spoiler alert: that’s never going to happen.) My concept of maturity has shifted and veered so many times in my recent history that I had almost come to believe there could never exist an absolute end to my exodus from youth.

And then this past weekend happened, and – my god – I am now without question an adult.

Why, you ask?

Well, on Friday night, I passed on happy hour to embark on some much needed spring cleaning, and was so pleased with my newly organized closet that I documented the results, which I have since shown dozens of (now former?) friends.

Yes, I own four pairs of GEL-NEO33 Asics in different colors. Don’t judge me.

On Saturday, I awoke before 7 a.m. on a weekend to meet two ladies for a 12-mile jog down the West Side Highway that culminated with a bowl of homemade oatmeal in my apartment rather than a bottomless mimosa brunch.

I hate you for not sweating, Leigh-Ann.

On Sunday, I cooked a five-course Easter dinner for a collection of friends, complete with egg dyeing, three kinds of vegetables and seasonally appropriate cupcakes.

Hippity-hoppity, diabetes’ on its way!

Pair this past weekend with me asking for a food processor for my birthday last year and it becomes painstakingly clear: I am ever so much more than twenty.

But I’m not necessarily saying that’s a bad thing. In general, I prefer being a responsible adult to my naive, former self, especially when it comes to hailing cabs and picking up checks and buying boxes of Splenda in the sugar (?) aisle at the super market (did that sound believable?). Being mature enough to forgo a cocktail ahead of a long run or pick a training schedule and stick to it is crucial when it comes to marathon training, so while I occasionally miss the freedom that comes with youthful irresponsibility, I think I’ll take adulthood any day.

Unfortunately, being an adult also means finally getting over my silly preoccupation with my furry niece. So, dear readers, as I complete my transition to maturity, please enjoy one last slideshow of the goldeniest doodle around.

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Happy April 1, everyone! What do you do that makes you feel like a grown-up? And more importantly, what do you do that still makes you feel like a kid?

3 Responses to I Was 17 Going on 18 … A Decade Ago.

I guess the question that really comes to mind is why “Obi-Wan” Kenobi thought changing his name to “Ben” Kenobi would allow him to hide from the empire. That is the worst witness protection plan I have ever heard. The. Absolute. Worst.
Surprise ending that may have even caught M. Night off guard: Nobody ever figured out that “Old Ben” Kenobi was “Obi-Wan” Kenobi.